He had grabbed her by the arm and was pushing her roughly across the room.
"What about you?"
He shook his head. "Depends what they want. Look, whatever happens, you know nothing."
"But if you're arrested, taken away, what do I—?"
"Nothing. There's nothing you can do. Just keep your head down." Misha stood up and shook himself, tongue lolling. 'Take the dog with you," Priabin added. "Quickly. Come on, Misha, quick, boy!" He opened his door, pushing Katya and the dog into the outer office, snapping at his secretary: "Lieutenant Grechkova hasn't been here — I've been alone all morning. Understand?"
His secretary, red mouth still wide, merely nodded.
"I have to—" Katya began.
"Nothing. Understand me, Katya — nothing. Now go."
Priabin closed the outer door behind them, and felt the perspiration stand out on his forehead. His secretary, the widow of a KGB officer, appeared concerned.
"We're in for a visit — GRU. They may want to talk to me. I might have to go with them — just a routine panic!" He grinned shakily at her. Soothed her by patting the air in front of him with his hands. "Nothing to worry about. Just remember, no one's been here, I haven't even spoken to you. I'll explain when it's all blown over." He had walked to his own door, paused, holding it open, looking back at her. She was nodding her understanding; her eyes were bright with anxieties, her hands fluttered above her typewriter, as if he were dictating to her. "OK, Marfa, just play dumb. It's me they want to talk to. When they get here, show them straight in." He nodded, smiled palely, and closed the door behind him.
He looked at the map on the wall with a deep, sharp regret. He sat down at his desk, lit a cigarette quickly, puffed at it hungrily* then slowed his exhalation, trying to find a pose of relaxation, so that he would seem surprised. Fear, regret, a looming sense of disaster regarding Lightning. He felt the jangling of his nervous system in his chest and arms. Try to relax.
Secretary's face, then the GRU officer's features and bulk behind her, beside her, in the room ahead of her. He assumed surprise, molding the shock he could not prevent. Two soldiers were in the room immediately behind their officer. His secretary mumbled an apology, but he waved to her to calm herself even as he addressed the GRU major. A major — arrest, then.
"What is it, Major? What prevents you from waiting to be announced?" he asked with studied lightness; a sting in the tone, too, because that helped dissipate his fear.
"Colonel Priabin?" the major asked stolidly; aware of his authority, confident, but tied to a defined script. A minion.
"Naturally. What is it you want, Major? I'm rather busy, as you can see." He lazily waved a hand over his desk, then drew on his cigarette. Puffed smoke at the ceiling. "Do you need those two men just to speak to me?"
"Colonel Priabin, I must ask you to accompany me to GRU headquarters." Priabin was on the point of interrupting him, but the major ignored his hand, his poised lips. "Colonel Serov wishes to interview you."
"Oh. Concerning what?"
"I am not able to divulge that, Colonel," the major announced stiffly, staring past Priabin's shoulder; but there was no sense of awe, of being daunted. Just the indifference of a machine. "Should you decline to accompany—
"It's an arrest, Major — I understand!" Priabin shouted, standing up quickly, surprising the two armed soldiers, whose guns moved, then stilled, in their hands. He sensed the confidence with which he had begun ebb from his face. "An arrest," he repeated firmly. "Ludicrous."
This minion was not his enemy, and he had tired of the fencing match. It did no good, it merely wasted breath and energy. He Would need all his wits, all his cunning and strength for his meeting with Serov, who was his enemy. If he were to save his life—
He could not complete the thought. Instead, Rodin's somehow decadently splayed limbs spread on the rumpled bedclothes filled his imagination. The same fete, the same fate, he heard the soft drumbeat announce, pulsing in his temple. He plucked his cap from the coat stand, glancing at the map on the wall as he did so. It seemed such a huge place, suddenly; so many miles, so many hectares in which he might have hidden…
"Let's go, Major," he growled. "Well? I don't have all day. Let's go."
They were already engaged in the process of breaking him down. It was natural to them, and inevitable. There might be beatings, there might not; humiliations, drugs, starvation, half drowning — it might take weeks or hours. They would choose. He could either endure for as long as he could or crumble like an old, honeycombed wall. It would not matter, just as it did not matter to that poor bastard Kedrov he'd failed to rescue. At the end of the breaking, there would be the disposal of what remained. Very little; husks of corn or empty peanut shells littering the floor.
Gant watched his clenched hands shivering. His wrists rested on his thighs, his hands faced each other like armored and frightened crabs, weighing each other. The shiver was not simply muscular. It was fear; the admission of fear is not of assistance, he remembered — some psychologist, some expert; keep fear at arms' length or you may not be able to control it — it might end up controlling you… forget perspective…
… if you don't have a future, don't think about it…
What was that crap? Why was it here now, like laughter in the dark? He was cold, he was hungry — par for the course — and the walls of the cell had started to contract in his imagination. He was waiting for the first interrogation, the first pain, or the first enema of the mind, of the personality, that the drugs would bring. That was almost more difficult to bear — never mind to resist — than the beatings and the starving and the electrodes. The sense of being utterly without will. Gant shivered more violently. He knew he had begun to think too much. He had enlivened his imagination instead of drugging and sedating it with numbers or distractions of other kinds. Worst of all, he'd admitted to himself that there was no way out; no way back.
Because he was Gant, they would gut him like a catfish. Catfish? Catfish. He squeezed his memory like an orange, but nothing flowed. He could not get back to his youth, to the Valium of the past. They would want everything he knew. He would be in no condition — no condition — to be returned by the time they had finished with him.
He was cold. The shiver was in his arms now, in his body, too-Cold—
— door. He could not stifle his gasp of relief — fear seeped in whole seconds later — as the cell door opened. He had not even seen the preliminary eye at the peephole. The pit in Vietnam, in the Cong village, which had been approaching him again, retreated in his mind. He looked up with an almost pathetic eagerness.
Smell of spicy food. One of them had a rifle and kept his distance, the other moved closer with the food. Thin stuff, he saw, slopping in the mess tin; then it splashed on his flight overalls, down the sleeve of his leather jacket, soaked the thighs and crotch of his trousers. He snarled and almost rose.
The rifle moved, drawing a bead on him, the first round clicking into the chamber of the AK-74. Gant dropped back against the icily cold wall, hands pressed against his thighs, his body posed as if ready to absorb a blow. The corridor outside taunted him with its inaccessibility. The guard close to him was grinning, the armed one anticipated pleasure. Gant, involuntarily, flinched. The nearer guard unzipped his trousers, chuckled, then began to urinate on Gant's one gray blanket. Gant sat immobile, staring down at the food stains on his flight overalls. The guard whistled, as if using some public convenience. The urine spread in a pool. Both guards watched Gant greedily.
The guard finished.